


the burden of truth

by graiai



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Orgasm Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:20:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22690903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graiai/pseuds/graiai
Summary: The Exarch’s strength fails him this time after only his first release.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	the burden of truth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JackOfNone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackOfNone/gifts), [mechabre (tender_anaphylaxis)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tender_anaphylaxis/gifts).



> Word on the street is you two both wanted some Emet/Exarch non-con?

The Exarch’s strength fails him this time after only his first release. Already bent low to brace his weary arms on Emet-Selch’s broad chest, he comes shaking, with a trembling lip and a pallor to his face, and summarily collapses atop Emet-Selch, head falling to his shoulder. Emet-Selch lifts the Exarch off of his cock without satisfying himself: he feels nearer to sleep than not himself, and without the Exarch conscious to feel it, he finds it’s hardly worth the effort. 

The Exarch is so much smaller than he, slim figure nearly lost amid the robes which fan out around him as Emet-Selch lays him out on the bed. When allowed the privilege, the Exarch prefers to hide himself in their billowing folds, cowl up to obscure his eyes, for they gleam too bright not to reveal the truth in his gaze. Even riding Emet-Selch’s cock he wears it, desperate to retain some measure of aloof distance or plausible deniability of those desires he finds so distasteful in himself. Adjusting the Exarch’s unconscious form, Emet-Selch lowers the hood to take in what is so often hidden from him. 

He touches the Exarch’s face with a tenderness befitting any lover, tracing the glimmering tracks of tears that had spilled over scant moments before he fainted. Try as he might to hide them, it seems his eyes are always wet by the time he comes: Emet-Selch cannot be sure if he always reacts so _emotionally_ to such things, or if it is his touch alone which earns such a lovely honor. The tears cut their tracks down his cheeks to mingle with the spit upon the Exarch’s soft lips—Emet-Selch smears both as he scrubs the pad of his thumb across the unconscious man’s lips, the faint pressure dragging his lower lip over his teeth to reveal small, gleaming fangs. 

The Exarch’s layers are as falling veils when Emet-Selch unclasps the fibulæ at his shoulders, revealing what remains of his soft skin to Emet-Selch’s critical gaze. In a mere few centuries, the crystal has taken a good portion of his body: an arm and shoulder, both sides of his chest, asymmetrical across his torso and lately crawling down a leg. 

The image is grotesque, this soft, warm body being overtaken by cold stone like spreading gangrene, or a poison in its veins: something even less alive than the Exarch with his half-reforged soul working steadily to devour him. But even the revolting sight of such weakness of form as the Exarch possesses, the skin at the culmination of the crystal’s reach puckered like scar tissue—it fascinates, too, in its way. The Crystal Tower is nothing without its ruler, with not even the passing semblance of sentience the Exarch lays claim to (so little and yet so much _more_ than his precursors—the Exarch’s lineage writ across his features, Emet-Selch finds himself incredulous he had ever managed to find something of interest in something so incomplete as Allag), and yet like a slime mold or a bundle of roots, it succeeds in finding its way to a source of sustenance. 

It will gladly use him all up, Emet-Selch is sure, if only he does not get his claws in before it may. These two life forces, if even they can be called that, lie in opposition by necessity: the Exarch having presumably _some_ desire to live, no matter how dormant, and the crystal in want only of _its_ own empowerment at the expense of its sovereign’s fast-fading æther and swallowing him whole in the process. 

Their symbiosis ought to be wholly impossible, defying all reason, and yet it is the marriage of crystal and living flesh beneath Emet-Selch’s fingers, the Exarch’s pulse a weak thread in the line of his throat. Following the crystal’s path down his chest, Emet-Selch’s hand comes to rest upon the Exarch’s heart. Though weak, it is steady, even and slow. 

Emet-Selch knows not if the Exarch’s body even has the strength within it to come again. Certainly it will not be by his _own_ will, should it be possible. 

The crystal’s æther is faint to Emet-Selch’s vision, but it yet resonates, and when he slips his hand ever lower down the Exarch’s still form, it vibrates frenetic, the same rapid, oft-unpredictable pace with which he had so carefully imbued it in what Lahabrea had once called a ‘cruel mockery of life’. 

The crystal’s cold fingers have at some point in these last decades reached themselves around the base of the Exarch’s odd little cock, and while Emet-Selch still lacks the energy or desire to finish himself, curiosity leads his own fingers to follow suit. He wraps his hand loose around the tapered organ, the backward-curling spines Emet-Selch knows from experience will harden and rise in arousal still soft and near-flat against his palm. As with his face, the Exarch cannot hide his hardening cock from Emet-Selch when he is like this, beholden utterly to his care. Let the kitten count himself lucky that Emet-Selch does not seek to break toys he’s yet to grow tired of, because his wakeful stubbornness would else be like to do him only harm. 

Emet-Selch is more than capable of kindness, and he will spare the Exarch the burden of knowing how his cock stiffens for him, the spines catching against the rough skin of his palm for his feather-light touch. Should he know, he would only overexert himself to offer some protest or another worn flat and unbelievable; like this, he cannot resist, neither bucking away from Emet-Selch’s hand nor taking to futile battle over control of the crystal Emet-Selch has requested to constrict the blood vessels at the base of his cock. 

‘Twas Emet-Selch whose hand gave rise to the Crystal Tower—and his it shall remain.


End file.
